A long silence follows as I take in this information. First things first "Why would they want the famished? Are they looking for a cure?"

He snorts, "No, Kan. It's amazing how you think, as if you've been sheltered for the past four years." I feel the blood drain from my face, but he doesn't notice. "You're like a breath of fresh air, but a cure is pure fantasy. The famished are used for more fun in their weird lifestyles."

I really can't think of anything to say, and by the look on his face, he has no idea how close he is to figuring me out. As for the famished, it's shocking. I just thought everyone would go to government camps, or hide out, like me. "What kind of fun?" I try not to sound curious, but damned if I'm not.

"You'll see, I'm sure. I need to see some friends about getting help into the base, and talk to Guido about it."

I nod my agreement, and think of something else. "What do you mean by a certain type of famished?"

I can tell he doesn't want to answer by the way he flinches, but he does. "As newly turned as possible. They last longer."

I study him because he is clearly uncomfortable with the turn in conversation. "Clean shaven for famished hunting," I determine, out-loud, "I'm jealous. I'm disgusting. This shirt is stiff from sweat and funk." I wiggle to show my discomfort.

He laughs, visibly relieved with the change of subject. "Showers. We'll see about getting you one later. There's a low water supply from an irrigation and filter system with a strict schedule for bathing. Unless you do something important for the community to earn showers," he informs. "Most of the water runs the electricity."

Interesting."How?"

"Guido was some kind of engineer and built a hydropower source nearby. I suspect it was already there, he just got it up and running. He loves to lead, and uses what he knows to keep it that way."

"Confirms my theory. If the right people survive, anything is possible." He nods as if this already occurred to him. "Wouldn't have known that about Guido just by looking at him," I joke, and we both laugh. His smooth laughter makes my heart swell with developing fondness and trust. I've forgotten how good friendship feels. "We don't have to stay here. I'm well enough to travel," I suggest on a more serious note.

"We can't." He thinks about his next words. "My debt isn't paid. I have to do a couple of rounds in their betting ring." It comes out quickly, and he looks unsure.

"What betting ring?" I ask, even though I can guess.

Anticipating my questions, he says, "Fighting. No, I don't want to fight. Yes, I've fought before out of necessity, just like I will now. It was why I wanted to find what we needed on our own, but we ran out of time."

This explains his scarred knuckles. I glance at his hands, feeling my lips harden. Damn barbarians, we have to fight enough for our lives. Why make it a sport? I try to think of a way I can contribute to help repay the debt. Nothing comes to mind.

I don't argue with him. "I hope you know what you're doing, Gorilla. I guess I'm glad zombies are easy to kill," I try to make light.

His lips turn up in a half smile. "I don't have to fight zombies. That would be too easy. I'm fighting other men. People bet on who they think will win. It earns Guido money by holding the markers. He makes good money off me. I've even thrown some fights for him. Even though, he doesn't need it. I think he's just being greedy and wants to let people know he is still in charge."

Rudy stands up, leaning the guitar against the wall. "I have to go, but I'll be back in a little while. Have you eaten?"

I nod. "You're fighting now?" I wonder if he's telling me everything, or if there's more to this story. I'm more than interested in seeing it. He ties the bandana on his head.

"Yes, and I know what you're thinking. Please stay here, I don't want to worry about you." I shoot him an indignant glare. A smirk briefly touches his lips. "You should rest anyway." I'm not looking forward to going back to bed. I've been here for days.

"Why did you fight before?" I ask.

He scratches his chin, leaning against the wall like a perfectly chiseled statue, even with his hooded sweatshirt. "I needed some things that have made my life easier: guns, the electric stove, but mostly gas." This makes sense since he escaped the base. I remember the arsenal in his armored truck. Where the hell would Guido get gasoline?

"Your compound bow?"

"Had it before the outbreak.Side hobby. Came in handy."

"Really? Me too," I say casually. I don't clarify the fact the crossbow was to prepare for the end of the world. His eyes widen as if I surprise him.

"Yeah, you sure packed a lot of stuff," he said, curiosity etched in his voice. I just look to the ground and swallow, not really knowing what he's getting at.

"If you are referring to the junk from the SUV, that stuff had been in there for a long time, and I was in a hurry."

He pierces me with his steady gaze. "I was talking about your laptop, Darlin'." Oh. We stare at each other for a moment. "Anyway, that junk might be tradable for something you need," he points out, after he realizes I won't clarify about my laptop.

"You have a lot of stuff too. You must have fought in the ring an awful lot for it," I counter quickly, diverting the subject. He had to have fought a lot. Otherwise, how did he get the cache of weapons?

"Kansas, medical attention is worth a lot to me," he says, sincerely. Like me, he purposely changes the subject. It finally hits me that he is fighting for me. "I'll be back." He turns to the door. "Don't show or tell anyone about your laptop," he orders, before shutting the door quietly behind him.

I'm so curious, I'm getting antsy. These people use the living dead for whatever they use them for. I guess that's why they stayed here instead of going farther south. Plentiful game.

Rudy made it clear he wants me to stay here. He doesn't know me well. I've never been good at listening to authority. Not that he holds any power over me, but I really should take his guidance. He is paying for my medical attention, if you can call it that, but I'm curious. I've never seen anyone fight in this type of situation. Rudy's done it before, and they want him to do it again. He must be good. Even if he isn't fighting, the thought of people and how they are surviving together is more than enough to grab my interest. The more I think about it, the more I know I won't miss it for the world.

I get out a plain blue shirt and slip it over my injured head. I brush my teeth with my toothpaste and the jug of water. My boots never left my feet, so I stand, tying my locks back with the bandana again. Feeling around my wound for the bandage, I find it loose on one side. The gash is scabbed over with itchy stitches. Still sore, but no longer infected. Good. Taking the bandage off, I wipe a little rubbing alcohol on it. I'm ready to go, not sure what I'll find.

Chapter 16.

I open the door and peek out into the empty corridor. Doors line the hall, and each end seems to veer into other hallways. Fluorescent bulbs in every other lighting fixture shine bright, although one at the end blinks rapidly. I'm not sure which way to go.

Looking for high traffic areas on the old office building floor, I can tell the hall is frequented in each direction. It smells of cigarettes and piss, and contains stains I don't care to contemplate. The walls, textured with aged wallpaper, are yellowed and peeling. Taking a wild guess, I go right, but don't get very far.

"Where do yew think yew goin', cupcake?" I turn around to the rail thin woman who greets me. Standing taller than me, at least 5'9, she's easily the most dressed up person I've seen in four years. I close my mouth from the shock at finding people still dress up. Her bleached blonde hair's in a curly up-do. A split in her lip, covered with glossy lipstick, shows through her pursed lips. A short tight skirt emphasizes her hip sticking out in one direction in a pose with tall black boots, ending above her knees. Judging by the heels, her actual height's 5'6 or 5'7. Her billowy blouse shows the majority of her cleavage. Even pale and bruised, she looks good. Looking to be in her late thirties early forties, she's appraising me as I am, her.

"Going to the fight," I manage to say. She laughs at me, high and shrill.

"So, yew tha one Rudy's all in an uproar 'bout, huh?" How'd she know Rudy? Her accent's one of mixed culture. A southern lilt, yet she's lived around Guido and his lackeys long enough to pick up their dialect, too. Rudy mentioned he had friends, but her apparel gives me an uneasy impression. I hate judging people, but there's no doubt that she's a hooker.

"I guess, but I'm trying to find where he's fighting. Could you point me in the right direction?" I ask brightly.

She smiles, "Sure, I can show yew. That boy a maniac, he is. Wut's yew name, suga dumplin'?"

"Kan...." I say warily, trying not to jump to any assumptions about how she would know Rudy. It's not easy.

She squeals and I flinch, "Oooh, like Candy? I love that name, but that otha slut took it. Fits yew betta, anyhow." She smiles, clapping her hands, "Let's go, we don't wanna miss tha fun." She puts her arm through mine, and I smell her overpowering perfume. I don't want to think how she will spend her evening.

We go right, and take a left at the end of the corridor. It leads us to a metal door. Outside in the dimness of early evening, she looks both ways, alert. We're surrounded by office buildings and warehouses standing in the middle of a paved road. A tall chain link fence with barbed-wire attached to the top and outside, stands to our left. Blood stains and scorch spots dot the road and fence evidence of famished. People mill about inside the gruesome fence. There's nothing but open road and more buildings to the right.

She eyes my crossbow I grip in my hand tightly. "Don't get into tha fight with yew little Indian gear, that would be bad, Candy. It's good ta have anyhow, case them dead 'ems come scrimpin'," she says, approvingly.

"It's just Kan, short for Kansas," I inform lightly.

She cocks her brow at me, patting her hair. "All right then, I'll stick wit Suga. Cause these days, ain't no place like home, fo sure." I laugh at her reference because I haven't heard that in a long time. I like her. She's sassy. I briefly think of the other Candy.

"Is Candy who you got in a fight with?" I ask, hoping she knows what I imply.

As we cross the street, loud music and the chorus of a huge crowd permeates the air around building we're headed to, as anticipation does the same for me. "Yeah, but that bitch don't worry 'bout her. She already don't like yew, no way. She got this thang for Rudy doll. Yew can take her."

Great. "What's your name, by the way?"

Glancing at me, she laughs and opens a door to a tall, well maintained warehouse, and music blasts out. The metal paneling isn't rusted, but has that white crackled texture, as if it will begin to rust any day. "They call me Glinda." We both laugh at the coincidence. My anxiousness grows as the door slams behind us.

"This is da Clap Trap, we call it. Cause it's crazy, yew know?" Glinda says as I feast my eyes on everything, looking everywhere at once. It's dark, except for the blinking Christmas lights mixed with various party lights. Strings of flamingos, pumpkins, hearts, and Chinese lanterns hang around as if they string together anything that lights up. Strobes and colorful spot lights are strategically placed throughout as well.

The hollowed out warehouse has support beams going into the rafters. It's as big as a football field, with walls spray painted graffiti, featuring X-rated cartoons in neon colors that glow in the black lights. This weird setting has an underground club feel to it. An office area takes up the right side with a hallway leading to the back I guess there's another entrance, bathrooms, and stairs. Windows at the top of the office space look out over the Clap Trap.

On the ground floor, to my right, sits a gigantic three-quartered square bar. Beyond that, a big dance floor with a high stand fills the entire right corner. A person's head pops over the short wall of the stand. Nine Inch Nails pumps out of the speakers located all around. I recognize it as a DJ stand. It reminds me of trips to the skating rink, in Jr. High.

But the setting isn't what shocks me. The people. Survivors. My eyes sting from a flash of nostalgia. People are everywhere. I'm frozen, watching them dance and laugh, as if the world hasn't been overrun with zombies. "There are so many people," I comment, wistfully.

Glinda scoffs, striking a prissy pose. Her pursed lips are so glossy they seem to be blinking with the lights. "Wish sum of 'em were dead 'ems. I'd spend my hard earned cash pokin' big ole holes in 'em." She seems oblivious to my emotion.

It is the most people I've seen together in four years. I take a deep breath, pushing away my uneasiness from her comment.

I grab her with a sudden thought, "Hey, Rudy can't see me here." She laughs knowingly as she walks to the makeshift bar. The closer I get to the bar, the more I can tell it's made from various bars, and smells a little moldy, like old, dirty rags. I crinkle my nose.

"Git a bitch smacked around, that will," she eyes me. "Didn't figure Rudy the type."

My eyes widen at her assumption. Saddening me, I hope she doesn't take any abuse herself. "No, it's not like that," I tell her firmly, continuing to look around. "He wouldn't hit me, ever. In fact, he's saved my life." Three times, since I'm keeping tabs. Looking her straight in the eyes, "You shouldn't let anyone hit you either."

She glances away, "Don't worry, Suga. Guido and I got's an arrangement." She doesn't clarify any more.

People bob on the dance floor, their bodies a mass of waving synchrony. A flashing strobe light turns the scene into slow motion, but what catches my attention is the cage next to the DJ stand. It holds a woman zombie, and she's naked. One can't help but notice this zombie had an enhancement in her old life. A huge enhancement. Someone teases her with a fishing pole a mouse squirms at the end. My heart jumps at the unexpected cruelty. The mouse jerks up and so does the zombie, and her enormous breasts bounce. A hand reaches into the cage and gropes her. The zombie is oblivious to the assault, only wanting the mouse. The mouse yanks out of the cage, and she immediately sticks her arms through the bars, grabbing at people. An open bite wound oozes on the zombie's shoulder blade. Whatever zombie bit her took a big chunk with it. Fluid runs down her back in dark, red rivulets. The strobe on her makes it disgustingly eerie, as her assets bounce in slow motion. I tear my eyes away from the gruesome game.

A song with a fast and easy beat starts playing. The rappers rap about dancing with dead chicks and implied necrophilia. Fitting. The dancers don't seem to notice the song except for the beat. Dancing and bumping each other, the faces in the crowd turn up in pumping waves, their foreheads shiny from sweat.

I try to take it all in, and it's almost too much. In the far corner stands what resembles a boxing ring. On a raised platform, and brightly lit, the ring is unoccupied. On the other side of the ring, a wheel with a zombie strapped to it, is spinning clockwise. People take turns throwing darts at it. The mouth chomps of its own accord. Darts hang out of the body in various ways. When someone hits it in the forehead causing it to slump, a chorus of, 'awes' and 'boo's ring out as people exchange money. I blink in amazement, not quite believing what I'm seeing.

"There's that bitch, Candy! Thafukkin' hooka!" Glinda yells, as if she wants Candy to hear her. She points to the far end of the bar, dramatically, where a little stage and stripper pole sits for easy access. A voluptuous woman with curly red hair dances along the pole seductively. She turns around, jiggling her twins, and money lands on the stage.

I catch a familiar figure from the corner of my eye. My mouth twists in a half smile as he takes a shot of something while Guido talks in his ear. Hopefully, the conversation is about our upcoming plans, and not any more favors for Rudy. He already has enough on his plate.

A big spray-painted sign hangs behind the stage reads: Mago and Pappers, Tomorrow night! Glinda giggles and I turn to see she's flirting with the man next to her. Hunched over the bar, he is obliterated. The bartender obviously doesn't care. The man smiles up at Glinda, and can't keep his dry eyes from blinking. She must on the clock.

"Yo Bart!" She yells for the bartender, and he comes right to her. Bart's a middle aged man with salt and pepper hair, bushy black eyebrows, and beady black eyes. He has a couple days worth of stubble. A big-boned, medium frame houses a classic beer belly, and his denim, button-up shirt is rolled up at the sleeves, and like Popeye, anchor tattoos decorate his forearms.

Bart wipes out a shot glass with a bar towel. "What now, Glin?" he asks fondly.

"This is my new friend, Suga. She sumthin', huh? Git her a drank." She peers at me in serious scrutiny, "Pick yew poison."

Though I don't really want anything because of my jumbled nerves, I go for it anyway. It might help the sick feeling. "Uh, Tequila?" I throw out as everyone laughs for reasons unknown to me.

"Atta girl, yew know wut yew want, huh?" Glinda giggles as she puts her arm around me. I shrug, not sure what she means. Bart's speedy, and slides two shots our way.

A fair hair guy next to me perks up a little. "Who's the cutie, Glinda?" Picking up our shots with her perfectly manicured fingernails, painted the color of her lip gloss, she steers us away before I get a good look at him."Fukket, raunchy whore," the guy sneers. She flips him off, and hands me the drink. I gulp it, welcoming the burn and hoping it helps me relax.

"Be careful wit that nasty. He sniffs cherry pies two miles away. He gave Precious dim itches. Crabs, yew knows?"

I grimace, not wanting to hear about someone's crab problem. "What's a cherry pie?" I honestly don't know.

She laughs, "Depends on who sayin' it. My case, I say yew a virgin." Oh. Why would she assume that? Glancing at her, she watches me carefully. Ah, she's fishing, so I just shrug it off. She booms with laughter, emphasizing the shots she's already taken.

"Sorry, not my bizz." Yeah, no shit, but I smile at her. "But yew gotta notice not many chickie's here yew age." I glance around. She's right. There are men, men my age, older men, and a few I would call boys. I spot one or two females who might be under thirty, and a few more dancing on the dance floor.

"That's strange. Why?"

She shrugs, "Dey come, dey go. Some stay, some don't."

Before I can comment further, a loudspeaker comes on from the DJ stand. "Five minutes ta beat down, so place yo bet now!" Every person in the place echoes the DJ in excitement, as cheers accompany the announcement. The DJ waves his arms in the air. Looking toward Rudy, he's still in the same spot, but has gained Candy. Massaging his shoulders, she talks so close to his ear she could be licking it for all I know. Her bright red lips glisten in the dim light. Scratches adorn her face, the color of her lipstick. I almost smile with satisfaction, seeing the damage Glinda inflicted. With narrow eyes, I tighten my lips. I don't know why, really. Rudy shakes his head at whatever Candy says. She grabs him by the arm, pulling him up.

I try to stay out of sight, but it doesn't matter. He doesn't notice anything around him, and stares at the ring. Rudy doesn't want to do this, but he has to because of me. The guilt following this thought makes me want to go back to the room, where he asked me to stay. They walk through the crowd as people gather around the raised ring. Just like the woods, he dominates the space as the crowd parts for him.

Candy struts the room, attempting to look like a naughty school girl. Glinda notices too, because she gags beside me. She wears a pleated skirt, with platform Mary Jane's and knee stockings. Her enormous breasts squeeze together tight pushed up awkwardly. They look ready to pop out at any moment, and the mystery of them staying still this long baffles me. Her red hair flows down her back. I shake my head, taking a deep breath as Glinda leads me to a secluded spot.

Smoke drifts like a hazy dream in the bright lights. I gasp, noticing the famished tied to support beams around the warehouse for the first time. The crowd walks around them without paying much attention despite the wiggling and groaning they're doing. Bonded in various ways and dressed in what I suppose should be a provocative manner, they look crude.

The famished closest to me is tied around the waist and neck with leather belts, his hands raised above his head and bound at the wrist. Studded straps wrap around his body like clothing, but leave his abnormally large endowments on display against the top of his inner thigh. With his head whipping back and forth, his bloodshot eyes are wild with the grinding and snapping of teeth. Thick blood courses down his neck with each movement. I can't even begin to fathom why people want to look at the living dead in bondage gear. My stomach churns at the vulgar display.

I gulp, moving my attention back to Rudy as he approaches the ring. Pulling the sweatshirt and undershirt off in one quick motion, female catcalls erupt as a small smile appears on his lips. I know how he looks, sure, but now I can really look at him. Following the lines of his stomach to the little patch of brown hair trailing down, I let my imagination go farther than his jeans will allow my traveling gaze. Fingers catch his belt as his thumbs slowly stroke his happy trail. Unbuckling the belt makes his abs and forearms flex temptingly. In one jerk, he pulls it out of the belt loops, and his jeans slide dangerously low. The contoured V inside his hips is especially appealing. Finding it hard to catch my breath, I think my imagination has run off with me until more female whoops and screams follow.

Including Glinda's. I peer sideways at her, and she shrugs with a cocked brow. "He's easy on tha eyes, is all. No worries." She raises her hand, clasping money. I can't help but stare at the old, crumpled bill. It looks like something I wouldn't touch in fear of contracting the clap. A man appears out of nowhere. "Twenty. On Rudy, doll," she breaths. He takes her money, writing something on a small flip pad. He goes to another woman who has money up. The woman's hungry gaze never leaves Rudy as she speaks her bet. Peering around, I see other women are betting as well.

I laugh, figuring Rudy uses sex appeal on purpose, and turn my attention back to him. Easy on the eyes that's one way to describe it. He knows what he's doing. Shaking my head, I watch him subtly show off his features. Candy walks around to face him, blocking my view. Rubbing her hands all over him like a cougar, I wouldn't be surprised if her butt finds its way in front of his face, like a bitch in heat. He doesn't want her attention because he shrugs her off. That's what he gets for being a tease. I chuckle to myself. Candy looks unmoved, and steps away.

The square ring is enclosed with steel rails. Grabbing the rail, Rudy hops over in one bound. Everyone cheers as another guy hops over the rail bouncing on the balls of his feet, boxing the air. The man is scraggly, with long, nappy brown hair tied back in a low pony tail. I swallow because he's as big as Rudy, if not bigger, and looks like he lifts weights, a lot.

"Don't worry so much, Suga. Rudy doll got this on Russell." I nod, still watching the ring.

A scratchy voice comes on the loudspeaker. "Yo! We ready to rumble, tumble, and see some blood!" The crowd screams and jumps up and down, yelling at whomever they've placed their bets on. An odor of sweat, perfume, and B.O. drift to my nose. After the clank of a cowbell, Russell charges. Rudy stands and watches Russell's approach, looking bored.

Rudy must have counted on Russell's charge, because he feigns away as he sticks his foot out, tripping Russell. Russell isn't able to control his momentum and goes sprawling chin first into the rail. The crowd wails as I smile. He hasn't even touched him yet. Russell gets up with blood spouting from his chin. Rudy says something I can't make out over the crowd, baring his teeth in a menacing sneer as his mouth moves. I recognize this tactic. Rudy's trying to make him angry so Russell will lash out and make mistakes.

Russell takes his time, feeling him out, absently wiping at his chin with his forearm. They dance in circles, and Russell takes a swing from his right. Rudy isn't fast enough at ducking, and instead of hitting his eye, temple, or nose, Russell's fist connects with the underside of Rudy's jaw. The same place I elbowed him mere days ago. He recovers quickly, and bounces around Russell, looking for an opening. He takes his first swing and hits Russell in the gut. Russell bends forward to catch his breath. Rudy shows no mercy, and slams his elbow in Russell's face. The trace of a smile comes to Rudy's lips.

This only pisses Russell off, and he makes a low dash, taking Rudy around the waist with his shoulder. The audience cheers and jeers loudly. They fall backwards with Russell straddling Rudy, punching his face, first right, then left. I flinch. The sound they make going down isn't pleasant. I cringe as Russell's arms go back and forth with speed. I imagine spots are dancing in Rudy's vision. Rudy grabs Russell around the neck, squeezing. Russell's arms falter and Rudy flings Russell to the side without letting go of his neck. I take a deep breath as Rudy gains a squatted stance over Russell, and spits blood in his face. Russell breaks the chokehold as he hits Rudy in the ribs, hard. Rudy visibly gasps and most of the crowd jeers. Rudy backs away to catch his breath as Russell stands up straight. Being hit in the midsection changes Rudy's demeanor, and he drops to a defensive crouch.

Russell smiles. It's a grisly sight, with blood and spit smearing his face. When he gets close enough, Rudy straightens, swinging his body and foot. The momentum of Rudy's foot lands a roundhouse kick making Russell's head whip back with blood spraying the concrete and Rudy's boots. He falls to the ground as Rudy strides over to him. Russell gets to his knees, but Rudy kicks him and he falls to the concrete. Using his boot, Rudy rolls him over. To make sure he stays down, Rudy crushes his boot into Russell's throat.